The Beginning
by Delu
Summary: Shawn's spent the last 10 yrs in a neverending adventure as the world's greatest thief.But after meeting an obssessed detective determined to find his alter-ego, and reacquainting himself with an old friend, can he pass up the chance to play Psychic?1of3


**The Beginning**

As always, it was too easy.

The plan went off without a hitch – or a glitch, a snitch, or even a litch. But that's neither here nor there. No, what really mattered was that Shawn was bored. Again. The plan was simple, sure, but _really_? He'd gotten in and out in under five minutes without a single beep, ring, or whistle. Honestly, it was pathetic. _When will they learn?_ Shawn whined in his head as he deposited his bag of goodies on the couch. A ruby fell out and he rolled his eyes before jamming it back in. Walking over to the phone provided with his suite, he hit the pound sign while glancing at a menu.

"Hello, room service?" he greeted jauntily.

"Good evening, Mr. Biehn," a smooth voice on the other end responded. "What can I do for you?"

"I would like a thing of double cheese pizza fries and…," he paused, green eyes sticking and a smirk forming on his face, "… and the Red Sombrero Burger."

"Daring tonight are we, Mr. Biehn?" the voice – neither predominantly male nor female – replied, cool amusement coloring their tone.

"Well I _do_ like a little adventure in life," he snickered at the irony. His life _was_ adventure. Just the way he liked it.

"It'll be up in a few minutes, sir. Enjoy," _click_.

Shawn put his receiver down and plopped onto the luxurious bed that came with his accommodations. Sometimes – well, frequently – mostly – always – it paid to be a thief. As he cuddled down into the silken bedspread, he crossed his arms behind his head and gave a self-satisfied sigh. As he eyed his little black bag resting oh-so innocently on the couch, he reflected his latest work.

The Ventura County Museum of History and Art was holding a once in a lifetime exhibit next week. An exhibit whose centerpiece would, unfortunately, be missing. After all, the _Gemstones of the Nile_ were, in total, worth a whopping $3.7 million. Or 944,542,577.50 Drachma. Whichever choice was more profitable to him. Most of the jewels of the exhibit were now in his bag, wrapped individually and carefully cradled in their own compartments, ready to be bagged and shipped to the highest bidder.

_Knock knock knock_.

Shawn opened his eyes – _when did they close?_ – and forced himself up off the bed. He groaned deeply, his bones aching beneath lithe muscle. _It was probably that second backbend that did it_, he thought as a grimace made its way onto his face. Really, he was getting too old to do all these crazy splits and tricks just for a few shiny stones. Next time he'd just have to disarm the lasers and do it the easy way – not something he enjoyed on an everyday basis, but hey, he could do with a break.

_You know, that's not a bad idea. _

"Thanks," he smiled charmingly at the bell hop that delivered his food.

"Don't mention it, sir," the young man said, wheeling the food cart back out the door. Shawn slid him a twenty and waved off the stuttering teen's gratitude. After all, it wasn't often that he could find a decent hotel to deliver at half past two in the morning. Rubbing his palms together, he sauntered over to the table and poured himself a glass of milk. With this burger, he'd need it.

As he dove into his burger, he thought, _Maybe it's time to give Santa Barbara a visit._

* * *

"Dammit!" a man shouted, slamming his palms onto the desk he stood in front of.

"Detective Lassiter, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down," an authoritative voice reprimanded him from across the table.

"I'm sorry, Chief, it's just," he sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "We've been after this guy for _years_ and he finally comes back into the area and _whoosh_ he's gone again."

"I know, Carlton, but we need to stay steady on this," the blonde woman replied, flipping through one of the many case files on the conference table. Another blonde woman, younger this time, spoke up.

"I don't know what your obsession over this thief is, Carlton," she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't even know how you connected all these robberies together. There's no prints, no evidence, no massive tampering with the security systems – "

"Exactly, O'Hara!" Lassiter cut in. He made a sharp hand gesture. "With anyone else, you'd have something substantial left over. A hair follicle, a partial footprint barely recognizable in the carpet, _something_. At least Despereaux leaves a smoking cigarette. This guy though," he shook his head, menacing laugh bubbling up in his throat, "this guy is spotless. Cleaner than clean. Everything is put back exactly the way it was before he was there, even though we _know_ it had to have been moved for him to get to the stuff. They started calling him Spectre; the name stuck."

"How much has he stolen so far? Is there a pattern in the crimes?" O'Hara asked, distracting her partner from his rant.

"Approximately $427 million _that we know of_," he stressed. A frown marred his strong Irish face. "And he mostly goes for the big things – flashy, expensive, hard to get to. But the locations aren't set. He's been in Florida, Washington – even to international waters like Canada and Argentina."

"And how long has he been doing this?" she asked, scanning an old case file about some Elizabethan jewels stolen back in 2002.

"About ten years now," Lassiter confirmed. "And I've been tracking him since the heist he pulled at a book collector's right here in Santa Barbara. His first, I'm sure of it." The Detective's eyes were sharp, tracing and retracing all the evidence before him. _If I can just put it all together…_

"Sounds like his safety zone to me," O'Hara quipped.

"Ya think?" he asked sarcastically. _Rookie observation._ _Like I didn't think of that before._

"Carlton, _calm down_," Chief Vick restated. "In fact, I think we could all use a break. Let's go out to lunch, think over what we've got, and then go from there."

"Karen, I'm fine – " Carlton tried.

"No, you're not. You're obsessing," she frowned at him. "And if you don't stop, I'm going to have to take you off this case. Our jurisdiction is flimsy at best right now." She gave him a hard look. "We _are_ going to lunch and you _are_ going to leave those case files here." She gave a motion to his partner. "O'Hara, make sure he does so." She turned from the room and headed for the station entrance, the detective team following close behind her. The Irishman pursed his lips angrily.

"Carlton – " his partner started as they left the office.

"No, O'Hara. Not now," he shook his head. She sighed.

* * *

"Gus, buddy!" Shawn yelled, his multiple knocks having been ignored. He slumped against the wooden door that led to one Burton Guster's apartment. _Maybe I should've called first… nah. _"C'mon, man, open up!"

He heard a commotion on the other side before the locks slid out of place. A confused looking black man opened the door, confusion clear on his face.

"Shawn?" he asked before frowning. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

The man in question shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood, figured I'd stop by." He glanced down. "Nice fireman pajamas by the way," he looked over his friend's shoulder and sniffed. "Is that waffles I smell…?" Shawn pushed his way into the apartment.

"No," Gus denied, annoyance tinting his voice.

"Well… could I smell waffles?" Green eyes gave him a hopeful look and Guster rolled his eyes.

"It's 1:30 in the afternoon, man."

"Is it really?" Shawn asked sounding surprised. "Huh. Then why are you still in your footie pajamas?"

"They aren't footie pajamas, Shawn! They are regular pajamas with non-skid socks – as you well know," the black man sulked. "And besides, it's my day off. I can lounge around in my jammies if I want to."

"Jammies? Really, Gus?" the brown haired man gave him a why-do-I-even-know-you look. "Well, it's decided then! We are going out to lunch," he plopped down on the couch in his friend's immaculate living room. The perfect organization of it all was making him itch, though, so he rifled through the pile of magazines on the coffee table before tossing them back, completely disheveled.

"It's _my_ day off, Shawn, and I don't want to go out right now," Gus huff, reaching over and pushing his friend's feet off the table and cleaning up the mess. "And could you please be a little more respectful to my stuff?" he asked, indignation coming to the forefront as he straightened out the pages of Pharmaceutical's Monthly.

"Oh, _come on_, Gus!" Shawn threw his hands into the air. "I haven't seen you in _forever_, the least you could do is go to lunch with me."

Gus rolled his eyes. "Fine, give me a minute to get changed." He turned the corner out of the living room before leaning back into the frame. "And don't even try to eat my Red Vines," he glared. Shawn slowly pulled his hand back from reaching toward the package on the side table. "Good."

_Well, Gus certainly hasn't changed_, Shawn thought, standing up. Immediately, he noticed a number of minute details around the room. The brown haired man whined on the inside. Couldn't he go just a few days without his damned heightened observational skills acting up? It's not as if he wanted to know that Gus had tried using glitter oil to impress a girl – _c'mon, man, hide the bottle a little better_ – or that the man was bucking for a raise – _note cards with conversation starters? Really?_ – but it wasn't much his choice. Once the practice was ingrained into him, circa age twelve or so, there was no getting rid of it.

Not that he wanted to, of course; it was the basis for his whole career, after all. Without those skills it would be impossible for him to do just a single walkthrough of a target to assess its security system. He'd have to do it three or four times and his risk of getting caught would sky rocket. So, no, he didn't want to get rid of the talent, just maybe turn it off.

"All right, I'm ready," Gus called as he entered the room.

"I see you're still as much a tight wad as usual," Shawn commented after doing a glance of his friend's outfit. "Good idea to lose the sweater vest, though. Never thought you'd realize just how much like Bill Cosby you looked."

"I did _not_ look like Bill Cosby, Shawn," Gus scowled.

The green eyed man put his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Sure, no, of course you didn't."

"Well, it's better than looking like Emilio Estevez," Gus retorted. They both paused on their way out the door and gave each other a significant look. "You know I didn't mean that."

"Yeah, buddy, I know you didn't," Shawn clapped him on the back. They exited the apartment and headed to the garage. "So, which one of these is yours. I'm excited to see what Burton 'Oil Can' Guster is riding in now," Shawn clapped his hands together.

"You know that's right," Gus flicked his nose with a thumb and pressed a button to unlock his car. A few spaces down a brilliantly blue Toyota Echo beeped and Gus sauntered his way over to it, Shawn slumping along behind him.

"Really, dude? _This_ is your car?" he asked, disbelief coloring his voice. "It looks like a blueberry on wheels!"

"Hey!" Gus defended. "It's a _company car_, Shawn. And all the ladies love it," he smirked.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure they all wanted to know what it was like inside Violet Beauregarde's stomach," Shawn snarked.

"Just get in," Gus demanded.

"Fine, but if I have to be deflated by little orange men later I am not going to be happy."

* * *

"I'll have the Salmon with grilled Romaine, please," Chief Vick ordered, handing over her menu to the waitress. The nearby seashore let off a nice breeze for their patio seats and Karen breathed it in. They'd simply walked the block from the station, a nice calm pace to relieve their frayed nerves from over exerting themselves on the case.

"And for you, sir?" the waitress asked, turning to Lassiter.

"Chicken Enchilada," he replied bluntly.

"All right, then, your orders will be out in a few minutes," she smiled, walking away. She gave a glance back and smiled at Lassiter; he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. The poor girl frowned and stopped the sway in her hips, marching off to the kitchen with their orders.

"Really, Carlton, you shouldn't be so mean. She was only flirting with you," O'Hara said.

"She _should_ be doing her job. And if any aspect of that job happens to be flirting with the customers, well then we're just going to have to book her on propositioning an officer," he growled.

"She was not _'propositioning'_ you," O'Hara made air quotes.

"Besides, you're a bachelor now, so you should be looking at all your options," Karen retorted, arching her brow. "Unless, of course, you're interests have changed perspective?" she asked, eying up the men who were approaching the restaurant. One was familiar looking – a well boned black male in a lavender shirt and grey jeans – and the other gave off an feeling of charisma, even if he was only clad in a plaid shirt and old jeans. Beside her, Carlton grumbled a non-committal sound. "Do either of you know them?" she tilted her head at the two men.

O'Hara looked up and her face brightened.

"Gus!" she waved, catching the black man's attention. He gave a bright smile and pulled at his companion's arm, tugging him over to the police officer's seats. "Karen, Carlton, this is my boyfriend, Burton Guster," she stood up, pulling the two men to their table. She gave a confused look at her boyfriend's companion. "And this is…?"

"Oh," Gus said, gesturing to his friend. "This is Shawn, Shawn Spencer."

"You can call me Colonel Yonatan 'Yonni' Netanyahu," Shawn accented, giving a toothy grin. He was chuckling on the inside at the prospect and having lunch with a bunch of cops – the very people who tried to catch him at every turn, only to be left in his non-existent dust. _They call me Spectre_, he thought in a James Bond like voice.

"Isn't that a Richard Dreyfuss character from some crappy made for TV movie?" Carlton cut in, surprise and a vague hint of confusion edging his voice. Everyone looked at him with wide eyes.

"Very good," Shawn grinned. He walked to the detective's side, pulling an empty chair from another table with him and sitting in it backwards. _Maybe not __all__ cops are so dull, after all. Gus certainly seems to have found himself a bombshell And besides, I always did like a man who could handle his… gun_. "Dreyfuss fan, eh my good man? Who're you again?"

"Head Detective Carlton Lassiter for the SBPD," the Irishman said, puffing out his chest with a proud smile, completely forgetting his early aggression with anything (and everyone) around him. The two blond cops gave each other pleased looks and invited the men to lunch with them. They could do with a good tension breaker after the stressful morning they'd had.

"Shawn, this is Detective Juliet O'Hara and Chief of Police Karen Vick," Gus gestured, breaking whatever trance Lassiter and his friend were under. Seriously, it was creepy watching the ever-angry, ever-sarcastic cop ease up a bit – and with Shawn, no less. Green eyes looked over at Juliet and he gave her a charming smile.

"Nice to see that the Blueberry didn't scare _all _the girls away," he quipped. A foot kicked him unnecessarily hard under the table and he let out an 'oomph' before glaring at his best friend. The black man glared back and Shawn decided that, for now, he could let it go. Gotta be a good wing man for his buddy, after all. And besides – tall, dark, and pasty over here was quite a bit more interesting than hitting on his best friend's girl.

"So how come I've never met you before, Shawn?" Juliet asked.

"He's been out of Santa Barbara for a while," Gus supplied.

"Oh really?" Instantly Lassiter's paranoia acted up.

"Yeah, been doing a lot of odd jobs here or there," Shawn shrugged. "Learned how to operate a Wiffle Ball Maker over in Tennessee and man, do I gotta tell you," he laughed. "You _don't_ wanna mess with one of those without a sledge hammer and a thing of chicken wire."

"Right…" Chief Vick said, disbelieving. "So, do you do anything… professionally?"

"What, like a hired assassin or something?" Shawn chuckled. "Like I'd admit to that in front of a bunch of cops!" he winked. The other four stared back at him blankly. "Oh, wow, I can't believe that missed…"

"You'll have to excuse Shawn's behavior," Gus interrupted. "He tends to take life less seriously than he should," brown eyes glared at said friend.

"I assure you, Mr. Spencer, should you do anything untoward in my town you _will_ be found out," Lassiter ground out.

"Oh, come on, Lassie, I was just joking," Shawn motioned, grinning.

"Joking or not – " Carlton paused. "_Lassie?"_

"That's your name, don't wear it out," Shawn quipped.

"My name is Lassiter," said man growled.

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn shrugged.

"Here are your orders," the waitress returned, carrying a tray. She placed a delicate, fruit filled salad in front of Juliet, the fish went to Chief Vick, and Lassie got the enchilada. Eyeing up the other men, she asked, "And what can I get you guys?"

"I will have your best Belgian waffles," Shawn ordered. He gestured to Gus, "And my friend will have the children's pancake meal. He really loves it when you make a smiley face out of the fruit," he stage-whispered conspiratorially. The waitress giggled.

"I'll have the cheese quesadilla," Gus negated. She nodded, gave a last smile to Shawn, and sauntered off.

"Well at least she has someone to beguile," Carlton snarked, reaching for his meal.

Out of the corner of his eye, as he was covertly watching the rather fetching backside of their waitress, Shawn noticed that the chef – Billy Camp if he remembered that face from high school correctly (which, of course, he did) – had the worst case of hay fever that he'd ever see. Glancing back at Lassie's plate, he casually reached out and tugged it from in front of him.

"Spencer!" the Irishman growled.

"You don't wanna eat that," he replied simply. As Lassiter tried to tug it back, Shawn frowned and an all out war started.

"Give me my food back," Carlton said between his teeth, pulling the plate back towards him. He'd had just about enough of this ridiculousness.

"You _seriously_ don't want to do that, Lassie!" the brown haired man replied. He gave a sharp tug and the tension caused the plate to flip, sending the food onto the dirty concrete flooring.

"You see what you did!" Carlton stood up abruptly, glaring. "And stop calling me Lassie! I am not a rabies infected dog!"

"Carlton!" Juliet and Chief Vick shout, surprised at his hostility, while Gus did the same with, "Shawn!" (unsurprised at his friend's eccentricities).

"If you wouldn't mind…" Vick said after Lassiter had retaken his seat reluctantly. "Mr. Spencer, please explain your absurd actions?"

"Well, he would've been poisoned, of course," Shawn shrugged before realizing his mistake. _Shit. Can't let them know about my, uh, 'talent.' What to do, what to do…_

"What do you mean, poisoned?" Detective Lassiter was immediately on edge, scanning the crowd for any number of known suspects he may have put in jail.

"Yes, do explain," the Chief agreed.

"Oh, calm down, I just meant _food_ poisoning," Shawn replied, still trying to come up with some sort of logic behind this mess. His eyes spotted a woman a few tables away, luck talisman rubbing between her hands in an unconscious gesture of comfort. _Probably just broke up with her boyfriend_.

"And how would you know that?" Karen asked, perturbed at that knowledge.

"Oh, it's simple, really," Shawn gulped. _Here goes nothing_._ Well, not nothing, really – and why do they call it that, since it's never 'nothing' and always much more than something. It doesn't make much sense – _

"Mr. Spencer!"

"I'm a psychic," he blurted out._ Whoa… where did that come from_.

"A psychic? Please," Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"It is a little hard to believe, not to mention suspicious to use such a lie," Vick said, voice just on the cusp of threatening him.

"No, no, it's completely true," Shawn lied. _Well there's irony for you._ "I can tell you just about anything." His eyes honed in on the purse under the table. Stylish, yet conservative and just a tad matronly. _Our Chief must be married – and better off, too, _he thought. Spotting a pocket calendar with dates circled in red, he closed his eyes abruptly and put a hand to his head, humming.

"What the hell is he doing…?" Lassiter asked, mostly startled with a little bit of skittishness laced through. He was raised to believe in the facts – the details – the truths behind everything. Psychic mumbo-jumbo fit in to none of those categories. But, somehow, Spencer's look of utmost concentration was… enthralling. Carlton wasn't the only one to think so; Juliet, Chief Vick, and even Guster were all looking at the man as if he might pop any second.

"I'm sensing… a husband," his eyes snapped open – _Were they that green before?_ Carlton questioned himself – and he looked directly at Karen.

"Well, yes, of course I'm married," the blond rolled her eyes half-heartedly.

"No – not that," Shawn shook his head. "A husband, a wife… a baby," he let out a small smile. "You're trying to get pregnant." He frowned. "But… it hasn't been working. Again and again you try, but nothing." He looked genuinely concerned, stretching his hands out to overlap her own. "Don't worry, it'll happen. Just stop trying to force it."

Karen pulled her hands away, uncomfortable with the contact.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Spencer, and while it _is_ quite impressive – "

"Let me stop you there, Karen," Shawn held up a hand. "I psychically divined that the chef inside is sick, which is why I didn't want dear Lassieface over here eating the chicken," he slung an arm around Lassiter's shoulders. The man shrugged him off. "Hay fever, if I'm not mistaken," he leaned up close to Lassie. "It's a terrible sickness, to be sure, lots of sneezing and little sleep," he shuddered dramatically.

Not wanting to believe this tripe, and yet feeling that he already was, Carlton leaned back in his chair to catch a glimpse of the kitchen. Sure enough the chef – at least, the man in the paper hat and dirty apron – was sneezing apocalyptically into his shoulder, chicken breast dangling from the tongs in front of him. Lassiter's stomach rolled before looking down at the food on the ground. He set his chair back to its proper position and nodded his head at the Chief.

"That's… remarkable, Spencer," he reluctantly admitted. He really, really didn't want to do so, but he was grudgingly beginning to believe the hokum. _Well, he could've popped up and told me that he was Spectre_, Carlton thought sardonically. _Yeah, right; like this gypsy could be as immaculate as __he__ is._

A spark lit in Karen's eyes just as the waitress came back with the boys' food. But the idea could, for now, wait.

Twenty minutes later – when they'd all had their fill, and Carlton had harassed the poor manager for all the health codes his cook was violating – they paid their separate checks and headed out of the restaurant. Chief Vick took this opportunity to set her idea into motion.

"You know, Mr. Spencer, we could use abilities like yours on some cases down at the Station," she said, giving a half glance over her shoulder to the man in question. He blinked, taking his eyes away from Lassiter – whom they'd been staring at nearly the whole meal – and pointed his index finger at his chest, mouthing the word, 'Me?' "Yes, you," she rolled her eyes.

"You can't be serious?" Detective Lassiter asked, disbelieving. "This nonsense is good for a party trick, sure, but on official police business?"

"I'm dead serious, Carlton," the Chief replied. "Or don't you think we could use all the help we can get? After all, we haven't made a break on a _certain case_ in quite a while – if ever," she added, quirking a blond brow at the man. All three of the police officers knew just which one she was talking about: Spectre, the untraceable bandit. Lassiter swallowed his protests.

"Wait – you want to hire _him_," Gus pointed to his best friend, "on a super important case?"

"That's right, Mr. Guster," the police Chief informed.

"But he's – " Gus started.

"Perfect for the job!" Shawn cut him off, throwing an arm around Lassiter's shoulders again. The dour man shrugged him off. Again. "Ah, you'll warm up to me soon," he beamed. "So… how much would I be getting paid for this gig?" He wasn't all that concerned about getting his share – having saved up millions from his real career, separated into dozens of offshore bank accounts – but figured he should play the part of wandering loner.

"It's not a 'gig,' Mr. Spencer," Vick chided. "And you won't be getting paid unless I see results. As far as I'm concerned, this would be a trial case to see if you actually know what you're doing." She gave him a look.

He put his hands together in a sign of peace. "No biggie, it'll be a breeze!"

"I'm glad you think so," the Chief remarked, laughing humorlessly.

"So… what's this case about?" Shawn sidled up to Lassie's side, peering up at the tall man.

"It's a thief who's eluded us for many years. They call him Spectre."

"Oh," Gus made a sound of recognition. "I've heard a lot about him. Didn't he steal a vase from Mukteswar Temple in Orissa?"

"… What the hell is a Muckteshware and why is there a temple?"

"Shut up, Shawn," Gus rolled his eyes. "It's an Indian Temple in Bhubaneshwar and the vase was invaluable to the people of India as a historic piece of their civilization."

"Gus is right," Juliet put in. "That was one of the more renowned of Spectre's thefts; it was an international scandal, considering its… design."

"Design?" Shawn asked, pretending to be clueless on the subject. Truth be told, he was giddy at the prospect of having so many people paying so much attention to him and his work. The Mukteswarian vase was actually one of his better – and more profitable (£9832270.75) – heists, not to mention the fact he got the giggles every time he thought of it.

"It was the basis of the Kama Sutra," Lassiter rolled his eyes, hoping that the blush he felt at the top of his ears wasn't as prominent as it felt.

Shawn smirked heavily, innuendo already on his mind from remembering the job and jacking up to dangerous levels at hearing Mr. Salt-and-Pepper say it aloud. _Who knew I had a cop kink?_ he thought. "Is that so?"

"_Yes_, that is so, Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick glowered. He made his special sign of peace at her and she evened her face out into a frown. "I expect you to act professionally if you are going to be a part of this team, no matter how little time that might be. Are we clear?"

"As butter," he smirked.

As they all started to discuss just how this outside resourcing might help – or hinder – the police investigation, Shawn was stuck in his own thoughts.

_You need to be cool about this, Shawnsie, _he thought to himself, only slightly worried at what the consequences of getting caught might be. His entire childhood his father had tried to teach him the proper etiquette and techniques he'd need to be a good cop – a good detective, just like daddy dearest. But the cards of Fate dealt Shawn a different hand and he'd accepted it with full enthusiasm. As much as he'd hated getting grilled on proceedings and evidentiary support as a ten year old, it would come in handy now as he planned out just how he was going to steer the cops clear of his scent. It wouldn't be easy, but it was doable.

And then he could get on with the rest of his life: leave Santa Barbara (probably the U.S. all together) and set sail to his next adventure, his next heist, his next paycheck. But… there was something off about thinking that, he realized. It was nice to see Gus again, after a few long years of absence, and it was nice to see him happy with Juliet. And this whole psychic thing might turn out to be more adventure than anything he'd ever done before… Lord knows he'd never tried to _put away_ thieves before. They were cut from the same cloth as he, after all. And there was something about Lassie… something that made him think they were more alike than either yet realized.

As they reached the police station, Shawn acknowledged he'd already made up his mind about where he stood in the world. He was getting too old to do all the things he'd been doing for the past ten years. The backbends and the maneuvers and constantly looking out for any evidence he might've left behind… it was getting boring, the thrill washing away with what was left of his youth. Maybe it was just time for him to settle down.

_I always did like the California weather…_

"Hey, Spencer, you coming or what?" Lassiter barked, waiting for the 'psychic' to go through the door he'd oh-so graciously held open. Shawn looked up and they locked eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming, Lassieface. No need to get your panties in a bunch," he winked before slacking his face and giving a lascivious grin. "Or maybe you go commando under that dapper suit of yours?"

"Spencer!"

Yeah, Shawn figured he could learn to love it here.

* * *

**A/N:** And there it is, my very first Psych fic. PS to all you actually reading this (and kudos for paying attention thus far), I'm planning on making this a series of one-shots within this universe (Spectre Universe, for future information). Obviously, this is the first in the series. If you like this one, look for my name in the future. All right, I'm out, hope you enjoy it.


End file.
